One Mans Magic
by shedoc
Summary: is another mans science. Hot emotion battles cold reason in one of Holmes and Watsons most macabre cases to date! rated for safety
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

Further Note - Watson calls a certain something perveted in this fic, and is expressing Victorian Age Morals, as he is a Victorian Gentleman - his morals aren't mine and no offence is meant.

One Man's Magic…

_The following was located in the rubble of a building on Queen Ann Street, in a battered dispatch box. The journal was stained on one or two pages with watermarks, however the writing was clearly legible and the content fantastic. Should it prove to be genuine, this tale would surely count as one of the more fantastic of the 'lost cases' of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. With that in mind the tale has been reproduced below without alteration or edit._

_The style of writing __is__ dissimilar to that of the stories published in 'The Strand', which experts have attributed to the fact that it was clearly a first draft of something that was never intended for official publication. It will soon become apparent __why__ the story was never polished for publication: the personal content of the journal, coupled with the delicate subject matter render this particular tale unsuitable for public consumption. In addition it is apparent that Watson was missing several key facts that would weave the story into one that __'The Strand'__ would find suitable to publish._

_I'm sending you a copy of the tale because I know you are interested in such things. As you will find it is not dated, which makes pinpointing when this took place difficult except in the broadest terms._

0o0o0o0

As a doctor, one becomes accustomed to being woken at odd hours to attend to a patient. It is one of the more trying aspects of the profession, especially for a man with a ruined shoulder and game leg, however medicine is as much a calling as a duty and I have never begrudged those I attend in the small hours of the morning. The same cannot always be said for the times that my friend, Sherlock Holmes, has awoken me. In the first six months of our acquaintance I became used to hearing him being knocked out of his bed at odd hours, and took some comfort in the idea 'better him than me'. As my recovery progressed, I became more curious about the early morning and late night disturbances; eventually I was included in them. True, I did not always hear the initial sounds of a late night or early morning visitor, and on those occasions Holmes would wake me from an unusually heavy slumber with a hand to my shoulder and an insistent call.

Over the years I began to discern a pattern to the disturbances, and quickly learned that if I didn't wish to be dragged half dressed down to a waiting cab in the early hours of the morning that I should rouse myself from my bed and begin dressing when certain sounds were heard. That was certainly the case this morning, and I dragged my aching body from my warm bed reluctantly. The early spring weather was displaying an unfortunate tendency towards a fine mist of rain and raw cold, which did my aching limbs no good at all. By the time I was dressed and halfway down the stairs to the sitting room Holmes was racketing around in his own bedroom while our caller waited by the sitting room door.

As if my thoughts summoned him, my friend burst from his room, his collar half done and his hair in disarray, darting along the landing towards the stair leading to my room.

"Good morning Holmes," I said dryly and he gave a terrific start, his hands fumbling at his collar for a moment. I made no mention of the fact, as the landing was dim and my black suit would of course make it difficult to spot me. Three years after the death of my wife I continued to wear the full mourning suit that I had donned when my loss was at its sharpest. Society only required such a display for a year; however I was not yet ready to put aside my feelings.

"I didn't see you there old chap! Lestrade is here with a case," Holmes informed me briskly, "Get our coats, would you?"

"Certainly," I nodded, and slipped into the dim sitting room to fetch the Inspector and our outer wear. Lestrade looked uncommonly ill at ease, and offered me an uneasy greeting as I shrugged stiffly into my coat.

"This is a bad business, Doctor," Lestrade said as I donned my hat and opened the sitting room door once more. Holmes took his things from me quickly, leading the way down the stairs as he dressed with impatient movements.

"As I have no idea what this business is…" I hinted shamelessly as we got into the waiting four-wheeler and the constable on the box whipped up the horses the moment the door was shut.

"There's been a robbery," Lestrade began when Holmes remained silent, his grey eyes staring out at the passing dim streets, his mind obviously engaged elsewhere, "In a graveyard. Someone has dug up a fresh pauper's grave and… removed the body from the coffin. There are marks at the scene that point towards some sort of occult practice, but there is also… two men went to the grave, but three walked away from it."

"The occupant of the grave walked away?" I gasped, "Surely not!"

"The tracks are clear," Lestrade confirmed gloomily, "And there are a few symbols and bits and pieces that point towards some sort of occult ritual as well. If I didn't know better I'd say the men who dug the grave up then raised the occupant back to life and walked away with him. As I do know better, I thought Mr Holmes might be able to help."

"Perhaps the occupant was still alive when buried," I suggested, my mind spinning, "It is not unknown for this to occur, and I have to say it would be a better explanation than a man being raised from the dead by a ritual. Have you checked with the nearest doctors and hospitals?"

"We're doing that now," Lestrade confirmed, "Though how anyone would hear a pauper who had been buried alive, with no fancy system in place like a bell or what have you, is beyond me. I was hoping it was students playing some kind of a lark, but I haven't been able to find any evidence to support that theory."

"Surely if you have only just discovered this crime…" I trailed off and grimaced when Lestrade shook his head meaningfully, "I see. How many?"

"This is the second," Lestrade shuddered, "We've kept it from the Press so far, but how much longer that will last I cannot say. We didn't call Mr Holmes in the first time because we weren't sure what we were dealing with."

"Certainly not the dead rising from their graves," I muttered, "That is impossible."

My friend's thin hand clamped itself around my wrist, squeezing firmly, and I considered what I had said to get that response. Holmes had been a source of much comfort to me since his return, his time overseas spent in the employ of his Government changing him from a self described 'thinking machine' to a man who could show a friend some support in times of extremis. Realisation dawned and I sent him a grateful look; I would have to find a way to reassure him that I was not haunted by the memories of my beloved Mary. Although I still mourned for her, she was not a burden on my heart.

The cab drew to a halt and Holmes leapt from it, hurrying into the graveyard without a backwards look.

0o0o0o0


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

0o0o0o0

The pauper's grave had not so much been opened as decimated. Whoever had dug the body free had worked hard and fast, flinging dirt left and right with little concern for neatness or even the placement of nearby graves. It was an eerie sight in the half light, the misty rain clinging to everything around us, smothering the graveyard into half formed shapes and sculptures, making it a more sinister place. There were several uneasy constables standing about with their lamps, and Holmes was already tracking the movements of all those involved in this mornings grisly work.

A small wooden cross sagged at the edge of the hole, beside it a candle stump was dribbling wax over the newly disturbed earth. The cross had been desecrated with an odd symbol, which had been smeared over its surface and glistened in the early dawn light.

"It's blood of some sort," Lestrade said with a disgusted grimace, "Probably not human, though we'll have to check it out carefully. It's splattered all over the place, and that symbol was present at the other scene."

"Same grave yard?" I asked quietly, watching my friend circle and backtrack restlessly, stooping to examine something on the ground before going on his way again. He had gathered several samples of soil and other things, and paused for a moment to scribble down a copy of the symbol on the cross.

"No, on the other side of the river. I got assigned to it because I've had experience with grave robbers before…" Lestrade hesitated, shooting me a look and I nodded calmly. My wedding ring rested heavily on my right hand for a moment, though Mary's rest had never been disturbed by such ghouls.

"Were they after valuables or bodies?" I knew such things still occurred; indeed it was not so long ago that members of my own profession had employed body snatchers of their own, targeting particular sets of remains in order to further understand the rarer human diseases and deformities. As shameful as their conduct was, it wouldn't do to play the outraged gentleman over it. This was not the time or the place for squeamishness.

"Both," Lestrade sighed, "It was a terrible mess. Several of them ended up hanging, and the one that didn't is on hard labour for life."

"A good day's work then," I complimented him and restrained a groan when Holmes jumped down into the open grave without second thought.

"Mr Holmes!" Lestrade sounded outraged, and we moved forward so that we could see clearly what the amateur sleuth was doing. He was bent almost double in the confined space looking closely at the desecrated coffin. The flimsy wooden thing had been torn apart and there were some scratches on the inner surface of the lid that made me very uneasy.

"The occupant of this grave was undoubtedly alive when interred," Holmes confirmed my uneasy deduction and I clearly heard one of the young constables gulp.

"He was coherent enough to climb out of here with only minimal assistance, the second man held him in place while the first climbed out. He proceeded to smear the same substance that is on the cross onto the young man, and then led him away. There is something very ritualistic to all of this, gentlemen, and when we discover it we will discover some vital clues to the identity of our quarry. For now, Lestrade, all I can tell you is that one of the men is my height, the other yours, the shorter man is uneducated and left handed, and the taller man clearly was in control of this situation," Holmes delivered his findings still balanced among the remains of the coffin and then held a thin hand in my direction.

I hauled him up to ground level wordlessly and Lestrade followed us as we tracked the two body snatchers and their victim to a side gate which had been unlocked with what appeared to be a jemmy. There were a few traces from a wheeled vehicle, but the soft and continuous rain had obscured the traces after only a few yards.

"There is something about this…" Holmes muttered in frustration, and pulled out his pocket watch, "Come Watson, there is something I need to look at. I'll be in touch Lestrade!"

"But Mr Holmes! Will there be more of this?" Lestrade asked quickly as my friend strode off into the mist. The Scotland Yarder slumped in defeat at Holmes' reply and sighed.

"I don't doubt it! Hurry up Watson!"

I patted his shoulder in commiseration and headed after my friend. It took me nearly a block to draw even with him, an effort that would cost me later in the day as the damp weather laid a hold of my war wounds. For now, the hunt was on and I spared little thought to later comforts.

"Where are we headed?" I asked quietly as Holmes strode along, his brow creased in thought. Although eventually we would be in the centre of town, a more specific destination was desirable. I had always been frustrated with Holmes' tendency to keep key facts and conclusions to himself as we worked, a habit that had me scrambling to keep up, or even defend us, on more than one occasion. Any complaint to that effect had always landed on deaf ears, and I made a mental note to dig out and clean my service revolver once we returned to Baker Street. Better to be prepared, and this was sure to be a grisly business.

"The bookstore," Holmes grunted in a tone that warned he was in no mood for further questions or comments from my quarter. I was not at all dismayed by this, as he frequently required time to think before imparting what clues he felt relevant to the matter at hand.

Now that I had a firm destination I could afford to pamper my wounded leg a little and slowed my own pace. Holmes drew slightly ahead, his head sunk in thought, and I took the time to observe the pedestrians that were beginning to emerge as they wended their own way to their various occupations. The place that Holmes referred to had a proper title, but he invariably called it 'the bookstore', as if it was the only one in London. Situated as it was, equidistant between the courts of law and a teaching hospital, it had a large selection of medical and legal books as well as the more common fiction and historic texts. Holmes preferred this store above all others as it was run by a family with excellent memories and a lot of patience for what must have been one of their most difficult customers. I had even spotted my own small works upon their shelves and the proprietor, Mr Gadwall, had mentioned that his daughter was an avid reader of 'The Strand'.

A racket started up in front of me and I sighed, hurrying my pace again to where my friend was battering on the door of his chosen store, creating a disturbance that would surely attract the ire of the beat constable. Several well groomed gentlemen looked askance at my friend as he beat on the door again and I sent them on their way with a look of my own. Sometimes the simplest defence is to look as if the other person is the one acting oddly, and that particular look had cowed many a superior and smug gentleman.

"Holmes, the store won't open for another hour at least," I remonstrated with my friend, "Mr Gadwall may not even be in there."

"Someone is, I can see movement behind the shutters," Holmes replied tersely, beating on the door again.

"What on earth is going on here?" a woman asked behind us, and I turned hastily. Her fine boned features marked her as Mr Gadwall's daughter in a heartbeat, and her sensible thick coat, plain bonnet and gloves marked her character as one who would take no nonsense, not even from the families' trickiest customer. She had been frowning at us, but when I turned her face cleared and softened.

"Dr Watson? Miss Gadwall. Father is in Edinburgh Mr Holmes, a private library has come up for auction," she shook my hand and elbowed my friend aside in a neat movement, producing her own copy of the door key and letting herself and us in, "Mathews, why in heavens name didn't you answer the door?"

Mathews was a sour faced clerk with a slight stoop despite his young age, and an unpleasant pallor. He was gaping at his employer's daughter as she tugged off her gloves and bonnet. I helped her with her coat while she ordered a cup of tea for herself, and then glanced at me and added a second cup to the order.

"Miss Gadwall, I need to locate the origin of this symbol. Perhaps one of your brothers could assist?" Holmes sounded impatient with the domestic details, though he instructed Mathews to supply my tea with milk and sugar. Miss Gadwall took the journal that Holmes was holding out and angled it to catch the light of the lamp by the till. With the shutters closed the store was a very different place to the normally well lit and often busy I was more used to.

"They are scattered across England at the moment, Mr Holmes. There are several estate auctions all occurring this week with items of interest for various customers," Miss Gadwall replied calmly, "However I think I can locate this for you. Mathews! We'll be in the anthropology stacks!"

She didn't wait for a response from her clerk, leading the way briskly back into the warrens of the store, heading for the staircase at the rear that led to the second floor of the establishment. All three floors of this particular building were owned and used by the bookstore, with the fiction works housed on the ground floor. The reference books were either in the basement or the first floor, and I had spent many an interested hour browsing through the contents of the store while Holmes sought a particular fact.

I assisted with opening the upstairs shutters, and watched as Miss Gadwall pushed a ladder along one of the floor to ceiling shelves before scrambling nimbly up and poring over the titles on a top shelf.

"Here," she murmured and pulled a large tome down, flipping through it for a moment and then handing it down to Holmes, open to a particular page, "Does that match?"

"Hmm," Holmes muttered, comparing the woodcut to his journal, "There are strong similarities…"

"Well at least we're in the right section then," she replied and returned to her hunt while Holmes became engrossed in the book. I settled myself into one of the wooden chairs by the window, stretching my aching leg out stiffly and endeavouring to relax the muscles there. Mathews appeared as a second book was located and acknowledged with a grunt, passing a cup of tea up to his employer before handing one to me as well.

"I'll open the downstairs, shall I?" he asked sourly, and when he got no reply from either of the engrossed people in the stack scowled fiercely and headed back down the stairs. The tea was stronger than I liked, but it was warm and that was all that mattered at the moment. Miss Gadwall kicked the ladder along its rails while still balanced upon it, a graceful move that I had seen her father and brothers perform many a time and pulled down another four books, riffling through them and then putting them back with a grimace.

"Not quite…" she sighed, "Dr Watson, can I trouble you to go around the corner and locate for me a volume bound in black with silver lettering and purple marbling? It will have the word 'voodoo' in the title, and the author's last name should be Stiller if I recall correctly."

"Of course," I said uneasily. Voodoo was something that I had only heard fantastic and vague tales of, comprised of sacrifices, witches and spells, as well as several perverted acts. If the persons responsible for desecrating those graves were performing ritual acts of voodoo then this case had taken a very unexpected and morbid turn. Holmes and I had worked on cases where occult practices had been in place before, and they had always put the greatest strain on the both of us. People who believed in the occult were often the most difficult to predict and stop.

The volume in question was not difficult to find, and I refrained from opening it, not sure I wanted to know more than I already did.

"Ah, 'On the practice of Voodoo' by Alfred Stiller," Miss Gadwall smiled as I returned to their sides. She took the book courteously from me, flipped through it and placed it open atop the two volumes that Holmes already held.

"Ah ha!" his cry announced that he had finally isolated the symbol properly, and Miss Gadwall smiled at me indulgently. She collected our cups and followed my friend towards the stairs.

"I warn you Doctor, that last volume has been discredited since its publication. Mr Stiller infiltrated the Haitian groups under a disguise and apparently partook in a wide number of narcotics while doing so. His peers have used that fact to discredit his writing, and the Haitians involved are very distrustful of outsiders as a result of Mr Stiller's actions, so no one has been able to verify or refute any of the claims made in that book. However it does have a very good series of diagrams, which Mr Holmes will find useful."

"Thank you, Miss Gadwall," I smiled as we halted by the counter and she made her entries in the ledger. While she prepared a receipt as well Matthews swept past us, nose in the air, an action that caused Miss Gadwall to roll her eyes and shake her head.

"He's my mother's nephew," she offered in explanation, and I was hard pressed not to laugh at her resigned tone. She placed the receipt face up on the page that Holmes was reading and he grunted and slapped a handful of coins on the counter. Before I could remonstrate with him Miss Gadwall was making up the correct change, which she handed to me.

"I don't suppose I could impose upon you, Doctor… I was reading 'Study in Scarlet' again last night…" she pulled a very battered copy of my book out from under the counter, "It would mean a lot…"

I blushed a little and signed the book frontispiece for her, receiving a very charming smile in response as Holmes dragged his nose far enough out of his books to bark a brief thanks at the woman who'd helped him and headed brusquely for the door.

0o0o0o0


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

0o0o0o0

Given Holmes' distraction it was an easy matter to steer him into a passing cab and send us on our way home. Mrs Hudson would be waiting with our breakfast, and I for one was looking forward to settling in front of the fire. Traffic was heavy at this time of the morning, and by the time we reached our front door my lap had become a depository for one of Holmes new books, the till receipt stuck in as a haphazard bookmark.

He didn't surface from his reading until I unlocked our front door, looking about with a slight hint of surprise as if he still expected to be in the bookstore.

"Ah, you've rejoined us," I said in my driest tones, and he offered me a snort of laughter and slightly apologetic look. We hung our wet things downstairs and Mrs Hudson called to let us know that breakfast was on its way up.

"And what have your books told you?" I asked as we mounted the stairs.

"We are hunting for a man who is making zombies!" Holmes announced firmly, and I paused for a moment, sorting fact from dramatics. Holmes did so like his little jokes, though I had no doubt that there was some element of truth to his statement.

"Ah," I puffed at the top of the stairs, "Shall I fetch a butterfly net?"

Holmes laughter rewarded my sally, and he held the door open for me, concern glinting in his eyes that I very carefully didn't see. I dislike displaying my status as a cripple to the world, and it had been almost a year of hard work for me to regain the strength that my wounds had done their best to rob me of. That had been over a decade ago, and it was a battle that I was still struggling with, especially in weather such as this, or when I was beginning to sicken for something. My friend was a gentleman, and more importantly an observant and good man, and so nothing was said as I deposited myself in my habitual chair.

"Your humour is sharper than ever, Watson," Holmes settled opposite me, "But I feel that we shall need more than a butterfly net to resolve this case. What do you know of voodoo and zombies?"

"Only what I have read in the sensational press," I replied, "Nothing of the true practices or rituals of the cult. I believe I heard mention once of a straw doll used by a witch to torture a victim at long distances…"

"Irrelevant," Holmes waved the statement away, "We were speaking of zombies. According to the information from Gadwall's the ritual that occurred in the graveyard was the final step in the process of making a zombie, or in other words a witless and easily coerced slave."

"Perhaps you could give me the details, as I am hopelessly lost," I sighed. Mrs Hudson interrupted with our breakfast and Holmes shut the books before him hurriedly, shielding the diagrams from the patient woman's eyes. She gave him a very suspicious look but didn't say anything, leaving us to our breakfast quietly.

Despite the macabre topic, Holmes had a good appetite and attacked the food eagerly. As he often lost his appetite during the course of a case I did not complain about waiting for an answer, knowing that this may well be the last full meal he ate for the next few days. We retired to our armchairs with the last of the coffee and Holmes three tomes, and my friend lit his morning pipe with an air of abstraction, his thoughts already returning to the case.

"A zombie maker chooses a human with qualities that he requires – usually strength," Holmes said at last, his eyes glimmering in the smoke of his pipe, "In short, they administer a specially prepared concoction that so imbalances the mind of the victim that they lose their wits completely and become very impressionable. Through further applications of narcotics and ritual, the zombie maker impresses his will on the victim, gaining a slave that is unquestioning and ideally suited to rough labour."

"I see," I nodded, "And the burial?"

"Part of the ritual," Holmes replied, "And I have no doubt that it makes the drugs work all the more effective – the horror of confinement to a coffin in such circumstances would break the strongest of wills."

"Yes it would," I agreed with a shudder. Holmes gave me a concerned look, but I drained my teacup and sat up, "What is the next course of action?"

"I will be off, looking for the source of narcotics," Holmes replied firmly, "And I cannot take you with me old chap, and I will not be myself…"

That could only mean that he was going about in disguise, and into the dens of iniquity that crowded London. I nodded acceptance and asked if there was anything I might do in his absence.

"Lestrade will want to know what we've made of this," Holmes sighed, "And I think it might be best if he was told in person rather than by telegram."

"Indeed, if you send him a telegram to look for a man making zombies I believe he'd arrest you on the spot!" I smiled, "I shall go and see him this morning then and pass along your deductions. Provided he doesn't try to have me committed in your stead I'll meet you back here."

"I may be gone for most of the day," Holmes warned me, leaping to his feet and hurrying to his door, "Should you have any errands or such, do not hesitate to perform them. I don't anticipate any action taking place immediately."

"Which is why it would be best to be prepared for it," I called after him sardonically, rummaging in my drawer for my service revolver. Holmes laughed as Mrs Hudson came up to remove the breakfast plates and eyed the weapon I was checking with disfavour. She didn't like the danger that our cases sometimes brought to us, though it was more because she worried about us. She refrained from comment however and I gave her a cheerful smile when our eyes met. Holmes bounded out onto the landing from his second door, bellowing Mrs Hudson's name in his usual fashion. Our patient landlady rolled her eyes at me and I was hard pressed to maintain a straight face.

"Yes Mr Holmes?" she called sweetly, picking up her tray and stepping back smartly as Holmes threw the sitting room door open, consternation on his face.

"Allow me," my friend obviously changed his mind about whatever it was he'd been about to tell her to do, and took the tray, preceding her down the stairs. Mrs Hudson shook her head at me and closed the door behind herself. Not a moment too soon either as my laughter could no longer be contained.

0o0o0o0

"Zombies," Lestrade's voice was dangerously flat, and there was a red flush that was slowly creeping up his neck, a sure sign that he was becoming quite angry.

"In a manner of speaking," I confirmed, "Men whose minds have been destroyed, reduced to the basest of intellects by a combination of drugs and what can only be described as torture. The practice is used overseas by devotees of voodoo, and that symbol upon the cross is tied in with the rituals our grave robbers have used."

The red flush receded as I assured the man opposite that we were dealing with facts and not flights of fancy. Lestrade sat back in his cramped office and sighed heavily, a frown on his face. The wall behind him bore a battered map of the city with various pins in it, and his desk was as always overflowing with files and bits of paper.

"This is a nasty business," he muttered, "How am I supposed to track down a voodoo cult in London? They won't exactly be advertising for members or victims in the agony columns."

"Holmes is looking for the supply of the narcotic used as we speak," I sighed, "And I would imagine that the number of people in London with the knowledge of the ritual and narcotic are small."

"Hmmm," Lestrade leaned forward again, "Perhaps I should ask that Thompson chap from E division, he had some connections with the religious nut fringe…"

"Perhaps," I agreed, remembering Thompson from a case I had worked with Lestrade during Holmes three year absence, "And there may be a link to the students you initially suspected as well, Lestrade. After all, it's the sort of fantastic thing irresponsible and bored young men would find …amusing."

"Just what I need," Lestrade groaned, "We've had our fair share of those cases, Doctor, and don't think I've forgotten we nearly lost you on the last one."

"That was a ghastly business," I agreed, though he didn't press the matter any further; we had never spoken of the events once we had both recovered, each of us bearing our own scars. The young men in question, and I use the term loosely, had been so arrogant that they had advertised in the agony columns, something that led to their eventual downfall.

"Well, I'll get onto Thompson and see what he has to say," Lestrade sighed, "And I assume you'll keep me up to date with Mr Holmes' movements? No point in imagining he'll do the job."

"I will, to the degree that I can," I ignored the slur on my friend's character, knowing that in this case it was justified. Holmes often treated cases where he worked with the Yard as competitions between himself and the official force, and could be very parsimonious with his information until the eleventh hour. This was quite naturally frustrating for the men trying to work with him, as they had to justify their arrests to a higher authority and the phrase 'because Mr Holmes said' just didn't have the cachet to do so.

0o0o0o0


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

0o0o0o0

For the next few days Holmes was in and out at all hours, barely stopping to take a cup of tea, let alone a morsel of food as he changed appearance and checked his messages. The sitting room became something of a way-station for him, and it was not unusual for me to go down to investigate odd noises in the middle of the night and come across Holmes at his chemical table, testing some compound with half a disguise thrown over his chair. I was always on the receiving end of an apologetic look when this occurred, and we had more than one odd discussion in the small hours of the morning as he tested and checked his results.

Holmes believed he had narrowed the field to three men in London, one of them the author of the book that had first clued us into the business of making zombies. He made some mention of attempting to infiltrate the houses of these men, which meant that he would be attempting to use the servants of the establishment in his efforts to gather further information. At my request Mrs Hudson had left a tin of baked goods on the sideboard, and I was pleased to see that my friend made infrequent raids upon the contents, reasoning that some food was better than no food and nutrients be damned.

It was five days after we had first been knocked out of bed so early that I heard sounds downstairs and once more rose to see how my elusive friend was faring. Holmes was becoming frustrated in that he had been unable to find definitive evidence against his quarry, and I was becoming concerned that he would try some desperate measure in an effort to flush his quarry into the light. The room was still dim when I opened the door, the dying light of the coals throwing uncertain shadows over everything. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky outside, and I had left the curtains open last night before retiring, which added to the odd shadows of the room.

I couldn't immediately spot my friend, but the shadows near his bedroom door were deeper, which I took to mean that his door was open while he changed, something that was not an uncommon occurrence...

"Holmes?" I called, unease prickling at the back of my neck. I was naturally unarmed as there had been no indication of danger to Baker Street, but something about the silence in our room, made unfamiliar by the odd shadows, that shrieked a warning.

Before I could go to my desk and the gun locked in the drawer there strong arms swept under mine, shoving them above my head as strong hands locked together behind my neck, immobilising me in a hold that I had seen parents use to force-feed medicine to struggling children. I was yanked off balance and a shadowed form leapt out at me, shoving a funnel past my teeth. In moments I was choking, trying not to swallow the foul tasting substance being poured into my mouth. The men holding me were far too strong, and a well placed blow to my stomach had me gasping for air and swallowing the swill that had been poured into my mouth. I coughed and spluttered in horror and the second figure struck me a second sharp blow, this time to the head, making my vision dim alarmingly. I was released with a rough shove and I staggered the length of the room, falling near the fireplace.

My attackers flipped me onto my back and pinned me down, preventing me from getting my hand to my mouth to trigger my gag reflex.

"Easy now, Dr Watson," one of them spoke with a clear voice, though it was low enough to avoid waking Mrs Hudson downstairs. Indeed our entire struggle had been silent for the most part, and although I was in desperate need of assistance I was glad the good woman was not at risk.

"We'll see you again soon enough," the voice spoke again and I felt them release me. To my horror I was finding it increasingly difficult to move as my limbs lost all strength. There was a quiet snick as the sitting room door shut and the silence of the room engulfed me. I realised with no little horror that my last conscious thoughts in this world would be comprised of the sounds of our little flat, and made a final effort to reach for a piece of coal that had fallen from the fire earlier in the evening. With clumsy hands and ever dimming vision I made every effort to draw the symbol that we had first seen on the sad little cross in the graveyard.

Just as the coal lump splintered in my fingers the door to the sitting room opened again and familiar steps made the floor beneath me vibrate.

"Watson!" the dearly loved voice of my friend was horrified and I felt strong arms snatch me up from the floor. I forced myself to open my eyes, desperate to see him one last time, though the sight of his horror stricken face was little comfort to me.

"Oh my dear Watson, what have they done to you?" he moaned, rocking me a little in his grip. I did all I could to speak to him, to move enough to indicate my message to him, but that was already beyond my power, and as the darkness close irrevocably in the last thing I heard was my name being called over and over again by my dearest friend.

0o0o0o0

"Sherlock, please. You simply must see reason. Your refusal to acknowledge the situation is completely irrational. You dishonour poor John's memory, and his remains, with this stubborn behaviour."

There were not many people who would call my friend by his first name with impunity, and this fact allowed me to place the speaker as one Mycroft Holmes. What he was doing in the afterlife with me instead of my loved ones was unknown, but I found that I clung to his voice as to a lifeline. The deeply chastising tones of Mycroft Holmes were much preferred to the visions I had endured in the last stretch of eternity.

"I tell you, Mycroft, he is not…" my friend choked and broke off, his voice shaking terribly under some unseen strain, "He left me a clue on the hearth!"

"Sherlock that scribble could have been anything," Mycroft refuted with the relentless tone of an older brother, "A man who has suffered a fatal head wound is likely to perform irrational acts in the last few seconds of his life."

"His head wound is not fatal!" the shout spoke of nerves on the edge of collapse, "He would not have succumbed to such an injury… to such a pointless death! Not after all he has survived, after all he has accomplished…"

"Brother mine, we have had two doctors and a priest all here to examine Watson. The doctors all agree that he is dead… the priest was not even allowed to pray for John's repose… you do him no honour by refusing to give him the rest he so richly deserves," Mycroft's voice softened and I despaired for my friend when a hoarse, choked sob reached my ears. My poor friend, who was so obviously at the end of his strength, would that I could help him!

"Who could have deduced that when Stamford first introduced us that I had found the perfect partner for my work… a man that could complement my own skills so perfectly, a friend that… I am the man I am today because of his unstinting …" Holmes choked again, his breathing harsh in my ears, "What am I to do now, Mycroft? Watson… please… what am I to do?"

The plea was from a broken man, and it tore at my mind, goading me to move, to do _something_ that would ease him as I had so many times before. Holmes needed me, and that was all the impetus I needed to tear at the foul restraints that held me in the darkness, inert and cold. With an indescribable effort I forced my eyes open, wincing as the light struck them. Holmes was sitting on the end of his bed, his back to me, shoulders shaking and head in hands, his brother standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder.

I became aware of a weight on my chest and with one last effort I shook off the shackles that held me immobile on the bed, pushing the walls of my chest up and filling my lungs with cold air. Mycroft's eyes widened in shock, and for a moment fear crossed his face. His hand knotted in Holmes shirt and his younger brother looked up at him, despair plain in his profile. Catching sight of the unmitigated terror now on Mycroft's face he turned to look at me, his face changing from despair to shock in an instant.

"Watson?! Watson, do you know me?" his voice quavered like a child's seeking comfort from a night terror and I managed to nod in reply, my voice locked in my throat. I raised an inordinately trembling hand to him and Holmes leapt to take it, crying my name again. I squeezed his hand carefully and struggled to take a deeper breath. In moments he had lifted me upright, sliding behind me to support my weight and massaging my chest to try and awaken stiff muscles. My head lolled heavily against his neck, but I was finding it easier and easier to draw air in, and after a moment I forced a cough past a dry throat.

"Water!" Holmes barked at his brother and Mycroft moved more quickly than I had given someone of his bulk credit for to supply the demand. The terror in the older brother's face had faded as he fed the water to me carefully, though his hands were still shaking.

How I revived to that water! Not even in Afghanistan had I needed the liquid so badly, and we had fled Maiwand without filling our canteens. It was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted, and I could feel my body awakening in its aftermath as surely as any plant ever had.

"Thank you," my voice was unrecognisable in the rasp, but I felt Holmes convulse in a silent sob behind me, "I'm alright dear chap."

"Oh Watson…" there were tears in his voice, though his cheeks were dry, "Mycroft, get that quack you brought with you in here, we need to be sure…"

"Of course," the elder Holmes said and dismantled the furniture barricaded in front of the hall door to call for a doctor. A glance at the door to the sitting room showed a similar arrangement, and when he realised what I was looking at Holmes spoke softly in my ear.

"I had to lock us in, my dear friend," his voice choked for a moment, "You were to all intents and purposes dead, and they wanted me to… Mrs Hudson came in to see to the fire just as you succumbed and… they wanted me to…"

"Bury me," I shuddered, and coughed. His arms tightened around me anxiously, "Thank god you didn't."

He had barricaded himself in though, with a man that appeared to be dead. From what the brothers had said doctors had been admitted and pronounced me dead. The evidence of his eyes had warred with the belief he had in my message to him, breaking down his logic until at last Mycroft had been admitted.

"How long…?" I coughed again and Mycroft poured another glass of water. I sipped eagerly, getting my breathing under control and feeling my head clear even further. While it was terribly embarrassing to rely on the older man to perform this service there was no way my hands had the strength to grip the glass themselves.

"You've been lying insensible for two days," Mycroft said sombrely, "I was called in only an hour ago. Inspector Lestrade was at his wits end."

"Yes well…" Holmes voice was scathing, but I shushed him by patting a hand in reproof. Not a moment too soon as the Inspector himself entered behind the doctor that Mycroft had summoned. The Yarder's expression was also one of fear, which gave way rapidly to surprise and then joy.

"God preserve us!" Lestrade exclaimed in shock, and the doctor hurried forward, his bag already open. I submitted to his examination patiently, though Holmes refused to lay me down, citing my coughing as indication that I needed to remain upright to clear my lungs.

"Doctor?" Lestrade asked, and I wasn't sure who he was addressing. I decided to answer anyway, in case it was me.

"Yes?"

"Are you… well, sir?"

"I am feeling much better," I coughed. The paroxysm left me gasping for breath and slumped against the slender form of my friend, who was fairly quivering in reaction behind me.

"Don't talk, Watson," Holmes said anxiously from behind me, "And stop asking asinine questions, Lestrade! Make yourself useful… go tell Mrs Hudson the good news."

The good man flushed but disappeared down the stairs obediently enough. The doctor put his instruments away and hesitated, unsure of whom to report to.

"Well?" Holmes' nerves couldn't take much more of this, I was sure, and I glared at my nameless colleague in silent warning.

"If you are correct about this gentleman's condition being caused by ingestion of an unknown drug, then I would say his recovery is… underway. I cannot give a more precise prognosis at this time. He presents the symptoms of a severe blow to the head, though the injury above his ear is certainly not bad enough to be the cause of those symptoms," the man said quietly, "He should rest, take the usual fluids and simple meals, and avoid any further ingestion of that particular drug," the man said firmly, and I nodded, his diagnosis agreeing with mine, "He should also see his own physician at some point."

"I will," I agreed, mainly to get him out of the room.

"And his lungs are clear," the man glared at my friend, "He can recline."

Mycroft ushered the doctor out and I took a deep breath, gathering my strength. When I made as if to get up, Holmes arms tightened convulsively. I didn't have the strength to struggle, but I knew that once he realised my need he would allow me to move.

"I need to stretch," I rasped, "Let me up for a moment, old chap."

In truth I wanted out of the bed where I had lain as a corpse. In addition, the sinister portraits glaring down at us were more than a little disconcerting, as were the bullet holes in several of them. Holmes hesitated for a moment and then rose from the bed, lifting me with him and settling me on weakened feet. I held firmly onto him, both to reassure him that I wasn't going anywhere and to ensure I didn't end up on the floor in a heap.

"The sitting room," he suggested and I nodded, allowing Holmes to take most of my weight as we moved into the familiar room. My armchair was a welcome sight and I managed to stay upright long enough to reach it. Mycroft appeared just as Holmes finished settling me to his satisfaction and disappeared once more, returning with a blanket which he tucked around me personally. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson appeared and I submitted to her motherly fussing patiently, agreeing that some of her beef broth would be welcome, and asking that she bring something up for Holmes as well.

Holmes was rushing about, turning up the gaslights and settling a small table near me. A glance at Mycroft was all it took to impel the older brother into the youngest ones path and stuff him into the armchair opposite mine. He stood over my nervous friend and spoke to him in a tone too low for me to hear. Lestrade distracted me by pulling the ottoman up beside me and sitting down on it, reaching over to touch my knee as if to ensure that I was not a mass hallucination.

"I'm so glad to see you up, Doctor," Lestrade's voice was even mainly by force of will, and I nodded, understanding all that he hadn't said. I had become as much of a fixture at the Yard as Holmes in my own small way, what with the duties I occasionally performed in the morgue and my aid to the many members of the official force and their families.

"You'll be wanting to know what happened," I smiled at my 'official Yarder' as he was known amongst the younger constables. Lestrade nodded, and shot a hesitant look over at Holmes, who was still being spoken to by his brother.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much beyond the fact that there was two of them, about the size that Holmes gave you in the graveyard," I raised my voice slightly and Mycroft broke off, turning to listen to me. Holmes face was still an unhealthy white and his eyes had yet to release the strain that he had undergone.

"Anything you remember will help," Lestrade assured me, and Holmes stirred as if to protest. I knew that he was as eager for what few clues I could offer to him as Lestrade was, and I simply shook my head at his unvoiced protest.

"I heard a noise in the sitting room and came down," best not to mention that I thought it was my friend, thus I had not taken the simplest of precautions, "The room was entirely as I'd left it before retiring, but I went for my revolver anyway. As soon as I cleared the open door the taller man grasped me in … a peculiar hold… turn around Lestrade."

The Yarder pulled a face, but turned obediently, sensing I was still too weak to hurt him, or even force him. I explained what I was doing and Lestrade co-operated by raising his arms as I pushed my own under and up, clasping my hands weakly on the back of his neck: without his assistance I would never have been able to demonstrate it.

"He pulled me down and back, so I was off balance and the smaller one forced a funnel into my mouth before he dosed me," I released Lestrade without attempting to demonstrate that, and he turned again, his face thunderous. The expression was not aimed at me, so I continued to explain the blows that forced me to swallow and the one that dimmed my vision. The act of restraining me to prevent my expulsion of the drug finished my tale, and Lestrade nodded, noting down the words the taller man had said to me with a resolute face.

"You missed them by mere seconds, Holmes," I could have bit my tongue when I saw the effect my words had on his already overtaxed nerves, "Oh dear chap, I didn't mean…"

Mrs Hudson appeared with her tray and Mycroft bent over his brother, who had groaned and now sat shaking with his head in his hands. Lestrade took charge, bringing a plate over to Holmes the senior and a bowl of broth over to me. When he realised that my hands were still too weak to wield a spoon he tipped the broth into a teacup and handed me that, adding his own hand for support when I tired. I was grateful that he hadn't tried to spoon feed me – friend or no, my temper would not have allowed that. The broth revived me even further, and realising that I was probably dehydrated to some degree I drank down a large quantity of water and finished with a cup of Mrs Hudson's fragrant tea. Lestrade alternated between assisting me with attending to his own plate, and it was altogether the strangest dinner I had ever hosted, with the guests waiting on the host more than was strictly proper.

Lestrade cleaned away the dishes, and sat back on the ottoman. Mycroft finally deposited his bulk on the couch and Holmes had at least gathered some colour in his face, a sight which eased my mind a little.

"Not to be indelicate," I had to admire Lestrade's fortitude as he once again asked the distasteful questions, "But according to the information that you gave us Mr Holmes, the drug was designed to rob the victim entirely of their mind. I'm grateful that it didn't, but…"

"What was your source?" Mycroft asked before Holmes could deliver the scathing retort clearly on the tip of his tongue.

"There," I pointed at the book in question, still lying on the desk where I had left it after writing the report that Lestrade was referring to. Such things made arrests easier in the long run, and I had needed to feel useful to the case while Holmes scoured London in disguise. Mycroft picked it up and flipped through to the bookmark: the now crumpled and creased shop receipt.

"Hmmm, on the face of it… I have to agree with the Inspector. Unless it was a different drug administered to you John…"

"No," I forestalled an increasingly angry Holmes with my answer, "They expected to see me again. I'm convinced that they tried to make a zombie of me."

The words were hard to say, and I shuddered at the lingering horror of it, but there was nothing to be gained by denying the experience. Holmes lost the little colour he'd gained and Lestrade looked desperately uncomfortable.

"Then something about their preparation failed. Are you taking any medication, doctor? Had you taken anything that might have prevented the drug from working in its entirety?" Mycroft asked dispassionately and I cast my mind back.

"Nothing, not even a headache powder," I replied after a moment, "And it is unlikely that they'd have gotten it wrong, not after two successes. Perhaps…"

"The book is wrong? I had wondered, John," Mycroft anticipated and I nodded to confirm that his deduction was correct. His unusual use of my first name was the only indication of how this subject matter was also affecting him, but I hadn't the strength to worry about my friend's brother as well.

"We were warned by the bookseller that the work had been discredited because the author had been proven under the influence of narcotics during either the writing or research phase of his publication. If he was indulging during his research phase then any conclusions that he drew after the fact would necessarily be questionable," Holmes spoke in a thin voice, but I could see that he was beginning to revive under the steady tone of the discussion. This made me feel much better, as I knew I would need my friend in top form if we were to catch these fiends.

"The drug causes paralysis: that I can confirm," I bowed my head so as to avoid meeting Holmes' eyes, "And the hallucinations were… horrific… when I woke… I could hear your voices, but my body was very… distant. I had to consciously choose to open my eyes, and consciously choose to take a deep breath. From the lethargy and weakness I still feel I would imagine that the drug slows a body's metabolism to the point of death, holding the victim there for some time."

"But you're as sane as I am, and I'm not displeased by that, but why is it so?" Lestrade wondered, and I chuckled at the look my friend was giving him. If looks could kill…

"The coffin!" I gasped, and all eyes turned to me in an instant, "Coffins are not airtight!"

"Watson," Holmes sounded concerned, but I waved him silent, not wanting to risk losing my train of thought:

"The drug slows the body down, so the victim appears to be dead. He's buried and the small amount of air in his coffin is enough to sustain him in the suspended state for a while. But then he wakes, and in his panic he would used the remaining air very quickly. The lack of air, plus the terror of being buried alive, coupled with the hallucinogenic nature of the administered drugs is what destroys the victims reasoning. In fact, the zombie makers would need to gauge to the minute when to bring their victim up. Too soon and they'd have a raving lunatic on their hands, too late and the victim is a vegetable, or dead. They need to wait long enough for the brain to lose most higher function, but still retain the ability to follow simple orders."

"My god," Lestrade breathed, "That's inhuman!"

"It also explains the pauper's graves," Mycroft said suddenly, and all eyes turned to him, "Those buried in pauper's graves are not embalmed. There would be no interference from the undertaker, thus accidentally killing the victim. I would deduce the victims were found with enough money to pay for such a burial, you might want to check that Lestrade."

"It's also possible that they've tried this more than twice. Suspicious deaths are usually autopsied, so they'd have had to come up with a way to prevent that from happening as well…" Lestrade made a couple of notes and then paused, "Sir, they couldn't have made a zombie of you. You would never have gone to a pauper's grave."

"They still would have retrieved my body," I shuddered, "What better way to taunt…"

I couldn't finish the sentence, it was too horrible for words, and I leaned back in my chair, with my eyes closed. Holmes hand closed on my wrist and I smiled without opening my eyes, moving my other hand to cover his.

"Good thing you're a stubborn man, Holmes," I said quietly, and the men watching us broke into startled laughter.

"Careful doctor, you'll regret that one day!" Mycroft called and Holmes squeezed my wrist lightly.

0o0o0o0


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

0o0o0o0

I fell asleep not long after, the voice of my friend murmuring in my ears as he plotted with his brother and Lestrade. When I awoke from a thankfully dreamless sleep Holmes was curled in the armchair opposite me, deeply asleep. His face was still lined with strain, a sight that made my heart ache for him. His ordeal had marked him, leaving him shaken. I wished it had been within my power to wipe all traces of it from him, but only time could do that.

As if he felt my eyes upon him, my friend stirred from slumber, distress pulling at his face for a moment. I thought I saw him mouth my name, though he remained silent in his distress.

"Holmes?" I called quietly, wanting to remind him that he was not alone. He shot up from the chair at once, rushing to my side. Guilt crowded over me as his shaking hands came to rest on my shoulders

"Watson! What do you need?"

"I'm sorry Holmes," I sighed, "I'm fine. Don't fret old chap."

"Don't fret," he breathed, dropping onto the ottoman beside my chair, "How can I not. When I think of what might have happened…"

"Holmes, stop it," I said firmly, "I'm sorry, but I need you to be steady. I need you on top form. We can't catch these men if you're not. When this is all over you can be as shaken as you like, but until then I need you to bear up."

He dropped his head onto the arm of my chair, hiding his face for a long moment, and then sat up, squaring his shoulders under the burden I had placed on him. I hated doing it, but I knew that he would never forgive himself if our quarry got away. When this was over I would be strong enough to see to his needs, until then I needed him to focus.

"After you went to sleep old chap, I called in the undertakers. They removed a coffin, suitably weighted to the nearest graveyard. It spent the night under guard," Holmes voice was thin but steady, "Mycroft has arranged a priest and there will be a burial service for you this morning. I believe that the house is being watched, and we will set a trap at the gravesite. Your suggestion that your …grave would be … desecrated is a sound one, and we intend to capture them in the act."

"Then you need to eat something light to sustain your strength and find a suitable disguise," I instructed, sensing that to tell my friend to don mourning for me would be too much for his fragile calm. This case had shaken him so deeply that I was becoming concerned for his long-term health.

"And," I forestalled him once again, something that I knew irked him, "I would like some more of Mrs Hudson's broth. And some toast if that could be managed. Bring the loaf up and we'll toast it here."

The request was so unusual that he blinked several times before nodding and leaving the room. I stretched stiff limbs carefully, gauging that I was not yet ready to stand unassisted. As much as I wanted to be in at the end of this hellish case I knew that to insist on my presence would only hamper my friend. That would not be acceptable, and as he clattered back up the stairs with a precariously balanced tray I made up my mind to stay in our rooms until the entire matter was done with.

Holmes had brought me the broth already in a cup, as well as a tureen of it, which he placed close to the fire. He hacked a couple of rough slices off the loaf he had found in the kitchen and settled himself of the hearth, toasting the slices on the end of the fork we used for carving joints. By the time I had finished my broth he had slapped some butter onto a slice and devoured it hungrily. He topped up my cup, set the second slice at my elbow and hacked himself two more slices. He'd brought up a teapot as well and I persuaded him to take a cup of tea 'to wash down the toast'. By the time the mantle clock struck six he was looking much more himself and I was sanguine about letting him out of the house without me.

He took the tray back downstairs as Mrs Hudson began to stir, and when he returned to the sitting room he gave me a long look followed by a small smile.

"Your prescription was just what I needed old chap," he shook his head, "Though the argument could be made that _I_ should be taking care of _you_."

"And you did," I protested, knowing that he would see right through me, "I had three cups of that broth and a slice of toast that you prepared for me yourself. All I had to do was loll about giving orders."

"Hmm," Holmes replied indistinctly, lighting his pipe, and I let the argument, if it could be called that, drop.

"Mycroft will be here in a few hours," he said once his pipe was going and I had turned down tobacco of my own. I didn't want to burn myself if I dropped it, not that I said as much to Holmes, "An agent of his will also be coming in, through the rear entrance. He'll remain with you until this is over."

"Very well," I think I surprised him with my lack of argument, but I was steadfast in my decision not to burden him any further. If he felt a guard was necessary to my continued safety while he was out, then I would acquiesce for now. We sat quietly, each contemplating his own thoughts, though I was aware that Holmes glanced at me quite frequently, as if ascertaining that I was still present.

Eventually Mrs Hudson came up with the early post, and gave my friend a rather annoyed look for the mess he'd made of her loaf of bread. She was not too cross though, as she forwent the lecture and offered me a smile when Holmes' back was turned.

My friend disappeared into his room once he'd finished his pipe to clean himself up and find a suitable disguise. I busied myself reading aloud to him from the morning paper, keeping my voice deliberately calm and casual, as if this was yet another morning. The bell below brought him to the sitting room, wearing unaccustomed black, my revolver in his hand. Mycroft was admitted, and a moment later a young man with bright eyes and deceptive build slipped into the room behind him.

"John, this is Paul Weston," Mycroft said quietly, "He's here to ensure your safety while we finish this business."

"Sir," Weston nodded and I nodded back, knowing that I must look quite a wreck with my unshaven face a terribly crumpled dressing gown. I ran an eye over Holmes and nodded my approval of his 'disguise'.

"Sherlock, you can't wear those cufflinks," Mycroft protested, "They're not at all appropriate."

"I haven't any black," Holmes replied and I gestured to the ceiling above my head without thought.

"Borrow mine, old chap," the pair that I had worn for so long were resting in the dish that I kept them in, along with my watch which probably needed winding, and my change. Holmes nodded and trotted upstairs, his quick footsteps sounding above our heads as Mycroft gave me a long look. I gave him a slightly defiant one in return, determined that I would leave off my mourning when I was ready, not when my friends deemed it appropriate. Despite my happiness at the return of my friend I still felt my wife's loss sharply each day.

Holmes reappeared, adjusting his cufflinks nervously and Mycroft took charge, bundling his younger brother into his coat and bidding me good morning on the way out of the door.

"It is nothing short of astonishing that they are off to your funeral, and you've leant one of them your cufflinks," Weston shook his head and paced to the window, peeking out carefully and then returning to the sofa, "Are all your cases like this doctor?"

"This one is a little more… unusual than the norm," I replied, "I have never required a bodyguard before."

Weston shook his head again and settled on the sofa with the discarded paper.

0o0o0o0

Holmes didn't return until nearly five that afternoon. I had regained enough strength to see to my physical appearance, though I had was not fully dressed. From the vigour of his steps I could tell that things had gone according to plan at the graveyard, and he dismissed Weston with only the barest of courtesies. Weston didn't seem too dismayed by my friend's manner, and I didn't want to sour his mood with a reprimand.

"Well Watson, we caught them as neatly as you like. You were right, the blaggards had a timetable, and when there was no sign from you they assumed that… well, they assumed what we wanted them to assume," the break in speech was telling, but I made no sign that I noticed it as Holmes paced in front of the fire, "They were indeed planning to desecrate the grave and we caught them in the act. Lestrade used the arrest for a warrant to …"

"Who, Holmes? You've yet to give me a name!" I interrupted impatiently, and he gave me a startled look before dropping into his chair.

"It was Stiller, Watson. He was attempting to prove that his discredited work was indeed a valid study," Holmes voice was rich with revulsion and anger, but it was a healthy display so I did nothing to curb it, "He had convinced a young man from the gutter that they would make their fortunes with the endeavour; the men that became zombies were to be used as labourers for the construction business Stiller's partner in crime was intending to start. Stiller showed him how to choose appropriate victims, and taught him enough to administer the drug efficiently while Stiller used a hold he'd learned from cozening his own children into taking their medicine."

"I thought it was similar," I frowned, "You were saying that Lestrade obtained a warrant? What did you find?"

"His victims, such as they were, as well as his apparatus and writings. He was concealing them in the empty townhouse beside his, with a passage roughly knocked through in the cellar. His wife and children are in some shock tonight, but I imagine that she will soon have the help and support of her family. I just don't understand how a man who professes to be a scientist could go so far wrong! He was practicing _magic_ Watson…"

"One man's magic is another man's science," I am not sure what brought the quote to my mind, but it was all I could offer as a response to the tortured demand.

Holmes face was closing off, and I decided that to press for further details at this time was contra-indicated. Best to get his mind onto more pleasant matters. With this in mind I brought up the prospect of attending a concert announced in the Times that morning, scheduled for a few nights from now. The violinist was only very rarely in London, and I knew my friend had been interested in his career.

The look I got showed that I had not deceived my friend but he went along with my diversion, which was good enough for now. Only normality would reassure Holmes that I was recovered from the drug and this macabre case, and that was what I set out to give him.

0o0o0o0

END


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